SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT!

I've been bursting with this news since mid-week, and now I'm officially allowed to share:

The Debutante Ball has chosen ME to be one of five debut authors to contribute each week to their fabulous blog for the 2011 season.

Here's a link to the official announcement.

This will be the fifth season for this terrific blog, and I'm crazy-excited to be grouped with such amazing, talented debut authors for an entire freakin' year!

Guess what else today is? It's August 1, which marks exactly six months since I started Don't Pet Me, I'm Writing.

To celebrate both milestones, I'm devoting this entire week to blogging about...well, blogging. Check back each day this week for lessons learned, tips worth sharing, and pictures of Pythagoras in his underwear.

Um, OK. One of those might not be true. But you should still check back to see which one it is.

Thanks so much for reading, guys, and for making my first six months so wonderful!

Tawna

I spit on the birthday curse

I looked at the calendar yesterday, and was horrified to realize my 36th birthday is in two weeks.

I know what you’re thinking – don’t worry, Tawna, you don’t look a day over 35. With a good skincare regimen and a supportive bra, you’ll stay youthful and vigorous for at least another two months.

But it’s really not aging I’m worried about. It’s the fact that my birthday is cursed.

You heard me right. My birthday is cursed, and I am deeply superstitious about this.

Don’t believe me? Consider the evidence.

Here’s how my 32nd birthday unfolded:

1. My cat died.
2. My editor at Harlequin/Silhouette called to tell me the Bombshell line – which was scheduled to publish my debut novel in February 2007 – was being cancelled a month before said debut.
3. My longtime employer threatened to fire me if I refused to comply with the company’s hosiery policy (I did. They didn’t. Long story).

A few years passed, and I began to forget my birthday curse. When my 35th birthday rolled by without incident, I thought I was home free.

But the birthday demons were just toying with me. Exactly one week after my birthday, the following things occurred in a single day:

1. A doctor’s appointment revealed that a nerve surgery in my elbow had failed.
2. Our elderly dog was incapacitated by a severe vestibular disorder and couldn’t walk.
3. Our younger dog collapsed suddenly from an undetected, bleeding tumor and had to be put to sleep.
4. My agent called to tell me a book deal we thought was an absolute certainty was not going to happen.

So now you see why I’m only half kidding when I talk about the birthday curse.

I’m not saying all writing-related superstitions are bad. Back when I was querying agents, there was a funny little “blessing” Pythagoras would perform over every snail-mail query I sent. It was a sweet way to involve him in a challenging process, and it lent a teamwork vibe to an otherwise solitary pursuit.

But my fear of the birthday curse – well, there’s nothing fun about that.

Which is why I’m determined not to let it worry me this year. Deep down, the intelligent part of me knows that good things and bad things happen every single day. Much as I might occasionally believe the world revolves around me, I know the date of my birth does not control the flow of luck in the universe. Assigning so much significance to a single date just ensures I’ll spend the next few weeks braced for bad things to happen, and is that really a healthy way to write?

So this year, I spit on the birthday curse. I kick it in the nuts and give it a wedgie before ducking behind Pythagoras and cackling like a fiend.

Are you superstitious when it comes to writing? Do you have rituals you perform when sending queries or contest entries? Please share in the comments (unless it involves human sacrifice, in which case you should probably share with the police).

Why there’s purple underwear drying on my porch

I died last night.

Wait – I mean I dyed last night.

If you’re female and you’re in possession of boobies, you’re aware that white bras get dingy fast. Even before the elastic is shot and the underwire is stabbing you between the ribs, white bras can take on the hue of a dishrag that’s been tied to the ankle of a mule for three days.

If you’re the sort of person who doesn’t care about such things, I envy you. Really, I do.

Alas, I’ve been neurotic about my undergarments for as long as I’ve been wearing them. Not only must they be pretty and presentable, but bras and underwear must match. Always. You know that moment when you’re changing from one bra to another, and for the briefest moment, you’re wearing red panties and a black bra?

I hate that moment. I hate it more than fingernails on a chalkboard.

My friend Larie believes this is a form of mental illness, and she’s probably right. Nevertheless, I recently reached a point where – despite my most gentle laundering efforts – several beloved white unmentionables had turned an unfortunate shade of pale gray.

This was not acceptable.

I went out and bought a packet of purple dye, rounded up the assortment of grayish underthings, and got to work.

Pythagoras found me on the front porch using a kitchen spoon to stir a bucket of hot purple water.

“Do I want to know what you’re doing?” he asked.

“Probably not,” I admitted, “but I’m hoping you’ll appreciate the end result.”

All this effort to turn something old into something with a little more pizzazz – it’s a bit like what writers do every day.

Though I like to think my romantic comedies are quirky and unique, I’m pretty much just telling the same story every romance author tells – boy meets girl, they encounter some obstacles, they fall in love, and live happily ever after. Having my characters play strip-Battleship on a dysfunctional pirate ship doesn’t change the fact that the story itself has been told before.

I’m OK with that. There’s a lot of pressure on authors these days to come up with something “high concept,” something new and special that’s never been done before. But there really are no new stories. There are just unique ways of telling the old ones. Mastering the ability to do that is a big part of honing your craft as a writer.

Do you do anything special to transform your dingy gray story ideas into sassy purple panties? Or if you aren’t a writer, do you know where I might be able to get help for my hang-up with the matching underwear?

Oh, and in case you’re wondering, the purple underthings turned out lovely. There are a few funny spots where the elastic turned a different shade than the rest of the fabric, but the overall effect is quite fetching.

I emerged from the closet this morning to find Pythagoras trying to use X-ray vision to see through my clothes.

“Are you wearing the purple stuff?” he asked.

I gave him a coy smile. “A lady never tells.”

“Right. So are you wearing the purple stuff?”

I am NUMB with desire

When author pals release new books, I am delighted.

When author pals hold creative blog contests to support the aforementioned author pals releasing new books, I am downright orgasmic.

Thank you to Sean Ferrell and Harley May for making me all sweaty and breathless before breakfast this morning.

Sean's debut novel, NUMB, will be released by Harper Perennial next week.

In celebration of that, the foxy terrifying delightful Harley May is holding a contest in which one lucky winner will receive a signed copy of NUMB.

Harley May (the wench) has already had the pleasure of reading the book. In addition to gloating about it posting her review of it on her blog today, she's challenging readers to recreate scenes from NUMB.

Obviously I haven't yet read NUMB, and I'm declaring myself ineligible to win the contest since I was the victor in another recent contest held by Harley May.

Nevertheless, I couldn't resist the urge to play.

Behold, I give you my version of three scenes from NUMB:

Locked in a cage with a vicious lion.

Pythagoras volunteers to have a nail driven through his hand.

Who's that handsome man on fire?
(hint: his name starts with "Sean" and ends with "Ferrell")

Want to take a shot at the contest? Head over to Harley May's blog and learn all about it.

Or if you just can't wait to win it, go pre-order NUMB. Do it now.

Then go drive a nail through your hand and light yourself on fire.

Are you calling my name?

I know this will come as a shock, but Pythagoras is not my husband’s real name.

In fact, his first name is a fairly common one. At least once a week, we’ll be out somewhere and a stranger will call his name.

Somehow, Pythagoras always seems to know when he’s truly being summoned and when the stranger is shouting for someone else with the same name.

“Doesn’t that drive you nuts?” I asked once. “Having so many other people with your name?”

“Not really," he said. "It’s more like we’re all in a club.”

Personally, that would drive me batty. I’ve always liked the fact that I don’t have to share my name with many people. My mom came up with it by blending her best friend’s name (Tanna) and my grandmother’s name (Donna).

Though I’ve met the occasional “Tona” or “Tana” who pronounce their names the same way I do, I’ve only met one other “Tawna." She was working the cash register at a local bed and bath store, and I was inexplicably annoyed when I saw her nametag.

“Your name is Tawna?” I asked.

“That’s right.”

“That’s unfortunate,” I told her. “You’ll have to move. There’s only room for one of us in this town.”

I swear she knew I was joking, but when I returned to the store a month later and asked if Tawna was working, the clerk gave me a funny look. “She moved away.”

Like many authors, I use Google Alerts to notify me when my name is mentioned online. Any use of “Tawna Fenske” is me 100% of the time, which is a relief.

I always feel for authors like agency sistah Linda Grimes (who recently blogged about sharing a first and last name with a Justin Bieber fan) or author Sean Ferrell (who, it must be noted, uses the Twitter handle @byseanferrell and NOT @seanferrell – a handle claimed by an Episcopalian priest who’s probably making all kinds of interesting new friends in light of the amazing buzz surrounding author Sean Ferrell’s upcoming debut, NUMB).

When it comes to my first name, Google Alerts is seldom talking about me when it notifies me that “Tawna” has been mentioned online.

Apparently, there’s a Tawna who is a character in a video game, and another Tawna who is…well…I’m actually sure what she does, though she describes herself as working in the “entertainment business”

Does anyone else find this name thing fascinating? Is yours a common or uncommon name? How do you feel about that? If you’re an author, do you have any plans to use a pseudonym with your books?

Please share in the comments. I’ll be busy shouting “Pythagoras” at my husband to see if I can get him to turn around.

I am the mistress of discipline & moldy toast

Attempting to be a full-time writer requires a fair amount of discipline, and I don’t mean that in the fun handcuffs-and-blackcurrant-jelly way.

I need routine. This is usually how mine goes:

Wake around 6:15, write a blog post, shower, dress, feed pets, prepare and consume a breakfast consisting of two poached eggs, one piece of toast, and one hashbrown patty. Then I spend some time responding to email and making the rounds to other blogs before opening my manuscript and diving in.

You’ll understand then, why my entire day of writing was jeopardized recently when I woke to find no bread.

I knew I still had half a loaf of pumpernickel. Where was it?

I soon had my answer. The bread was in the garbage can, with several spots of mold revealing the reason Pythagoras had unceremoniously dumped it.

I began to panic.

Without toast, how would I sop up my eggs? And without toast, wouldn’t I be starving right when I hit my stride with the morning writing? Instead of dashing off witty dialogue at 10 a.m., I would be forced to flee to the kitchen and eat pie crust straight from the freezer.

I had no choice.

I carefully pulled the bread from the trash, wiping off a few bits of carrot peel and the nozzle from an empty tube of bike tire glue. I used my fingernail to flick away some of the bigger spots of mold before popping a piece of in the toaster.

When Pythagoras returned from his morning run, he found me in my usual spot on the front porch with a newspaper and a breakfast plate in front of me.

He stared at me a moment. “What are you eating?”

“Same thing I always eat,” I replied.

“Right. Um, where’d you get the bread?”

“Garbage. Hey, did you see this article about the parking fees downtown?”

He stared at me for a few more moments, then shook his head and wandered in the house. “Remind me not to kiss you until you’ve gargled with bleach.”

Personally, I don’t see the big deal. The bread was in a bag, and I did toast it. Generally speaking, I think most Americans are too uptight about expiration dates and food preparation. Pythagoras claims he has a more refined palate while I have the gut of a billy goat, but guess which of us can eat unidentifiable street vendor food in third world countries and never get sick? Hint: it’s not him.

But I digress.

Since the toast incident, I’ve stockpiled my freezer with three loaves of my favorite bread, and I’ll be keeping close tabs on it. This is serious business. My whole day of writing depends on it.

Do you have routines when it comes to your writing? Are you prone to rash behavior if something threatens your routine? Please share in the comments.

I’ll be over here trying to figure out where Pythagoras stashed the blackcurrant jelly. What? It’s for the toast.

The fine art of feeding yourself

My recent posts about my recipe cupboard have generated some interesting emails, tweets, and blog comments about my cookbooks.

In case you’re wondering – yes, my Better Homes & Gardens cookbook is indeed disintegrating from overuse, and yes, the Intercourses aphrodisiac cookbook really will make your spouse lie down naked on the dinner table (so maybe don’t use it when your mom visits).

A couple comments reminded me of a conversation that took place when I first purchased one of the books:

Clerk (eyeing the book, then eyeing me): A Weight Watchers cookbook?

Me: Um, yes. And also this shower brush shaped like a penis.

Clerk (eyeing me some more): That’s not a penis, it’s a leg. And why do you need a Weight Watchers cookbook? You’re thin.

It was one of those moments I wish I were quick with clever retorts. My first instinct was to wonder if the clerk also chided overweight customers purchasing dessert cookbooks. Then I imagined the inappropriate conversation I could spark by returning to the counter with a sex manual.

But I suppose I can’t fault the clerk’s observation. Yes, I’m a relatively thin person who just happens to like healthy cooking. My intense love affair with my Reader’s Digest How To Book of Healthy Cooking doesn’t mean I’m on an anorexic quest to drop 50 pounds, but it does probably mean I’m interested in keeping the figure I have.

It’s funny this subject should come up the same week I’ve been contemplating taking an online course on revisions from author Lani Diane Rich (aka Lucy March).

I mentioned it to an acquaintance the other day, and she looked at me like I’d just announced my intent to try sword swallowing.

“But you’ve already got a book deal,” she said. “Why do you need a writing class?”

I’m intrigued by this idea that an author could reach some I have arrived pinnacle and suddenly kick back with a glass of Sangiovese and the smug certainty she knows everything there is to know about writing.

If there is such a pinnacle, I don’t want to reach it.

Isn’t that the thrill of this business? The fact that no matter what stage you’re at in your career, you can always learn and grow and fine-tune your writing? There are a million ways for an author to refill her bag of tricks, and that’s part of what keeps this process fresh and fun. I don’t care if you’re a brand new author or Stephen King – smart writers are always working to hone their talents and sharpen their skills.

How about you? What do you do to maintain or improve your writing abilities?

Please share in the comments.

I'll be busy enjoying my healthy cookbooks and my online writing class and especially my penis-shaped shower brush.

Betcha thought I forgot...

Last week I showed you my disgusting recipe cupboard and lamented the fact that I have the supplies required to organize it, but never seem to make the time.

In case you've forgotten what the hellhole looked like, here's a refresher:

You may also recall that some of you accepted my challenge to pick a task you've been procrastinating and tackle it in the coming week.

Betcha thought I forgot.

Well, I didn't. True, I was distracted by my parents' visit and Pythagoras' triathlon and our impromptu trip to the Oregon Coast. But I uphold my commitments.

So here's what I did last night:

Getting organized at the dining room table.

Finishing up in the living room (much later, as you can tell by the lack of light, the dog's yawn, and the level of the wine remaining in the bottle)

The finished product. A well-organized recipe cupboard. Hooray!

And here's the funny thing: one of my excuses for procrastinating this task is that I've had too damn much to do. I'm finishing up the first draft of LET IT BREATHE (the third book in my contract) while also completing edits on MAKING WAVES and BELIEVE IT OR NOT (the first and second books, which are due on my editor’s desk August 1).

But taking those few hours to tackle and complete an unrelated project gave me a sense of accomplishment. As I finished tidying the cupboard this morning, I realized I was already itching to get started on the edits.

A far cry from the foot-dragging I’ve been doing lately.

So I guess the lesson here is that it’s not such a bad thing to take a little time away from writing to tackle some menial task that gives you a sense of accomplishment. As an added bonus, I uncovered some terrific recipes I’d forgotten about. Mustard Crusted Salmon, anyone?

Did the rest of you tackle an undesirable task this week? How did you fare? Tell us all about it in the comments!

On an unrelated note, I’d like to urge you all to check out a couple other sites today.

First up, Candyland (aka Candace Ganger) is doing an awesome fundraiser for the non-profit group Joy 2 the World, which generates micro-credit loans for the women of Ghana to encourage independence and empowerment.

It is a fabulous cause, and Candyland is giving away some truly incredible prizes for supporters. You could snag a 30-minute phone call with my amazing agent, Michelle Wolfson, some highly desirable books from authors like Sean Ferrell and Bill Cameron, or even a tag-team critique of your partial manuscript from yours truly and my critique partner, Cynthia Reese.

There are tons of other great prizes for writers and non-writers alike, so go now! NOW!

Secondly, Elizabeth Ryann (the lucky wench) got to attend RomCon recently, and brought back a huge stack of books she’s giving away on her blog. There are even a few in there from my own wonderful publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc. Want to win them? You’ll have to visit Elizabeth’s blog to get yourself entered.

Er, I didn’t mean it like that.

So that’s it for today – two great contests, one clean cupboard, and a whole lot of editing ahead of me today.

Life’s good.

By the seat of your pants

Monday afternoon, I had an unexpected urge to visit the Oregon Coast.

Since we live 4 hours away and it’s the middle of tourist season, you might think the trip would involve some advance planning.

You’d be wrong.

Within an hour, Pythagoras and I were in the car with one haphazardly-packed bag and one confused dog. We didn’t make hotel reservations. We didn’t know which towns we’d visit. We didn’t even remember to pack dog food or deodorant.

Bindi enjoys the ride.

But the trip was incredible. 36 hours of beautiful scenery, unexpected adventures, and good conversation.

On the beach in Florence, OR

This is pretty much how I write. Authors call this being a “pantster” (short for "seat of your pants") as opposed to “plotter” (those amazing souls who don’t regard outlines as tools of Satan).

There are advantages to both methods, and trust me – I’ve had moments I wished I could try the other method as both as a writer or a traveler. People who plan ahead probably don’t spend nights sleeping in a skirt on the floor of an airport delirious with fever from a bacterial infection contracted in Morocco.

Are you a pantster as well? Or maybe a plotter who’d like to let your hair down and try being a pantster? Here are three tips for both writing & traveling by the seat of your pants:

Don’t panic. There will be moments you realize you’ve backed yourself into a corner with your story or your journey. It’s all part of the experience.

While traveling in Europe, we hopped a bus to Slovenia without considering what we’d do if the bus dropped in the middle of nowhere without access to a telephone, computer, or ATM. For a few minutes, Pythagoras and I assessed one another while considering which of us would fetch a higher price on the black market. Fortunately, we kept our heads, shouldered our packs, and hoofed it a couple miles to a post office that kindly swapped our Euros for Tolars and pointed us to a pay phone. Slovenia ended up being one of the highlights of that trip.

It’s been the same with writing for me. When I set out to write MAKING WAVES (my debut novel) I knew I wanted to write a sort of pirate parody. I didn’t stop to consider the difficulty in setting an entire novel in the confines of a 45-foot ship. That challenge forced me to develop some twists in the final third of the book that are now my favorite parts of the story.

Choose travel companions wisely. I packed for Monday’s beach trip in about 30 seconds, so I may have neglected a few essentials. Like a toothbrush. Or a razor. Or deodorant. Since Pythagoras also forgot the latter, he ran to the store for the deodorant while I helped myself to his razor and brushed my teeth with a cotton ball stolen from his bag. (Incidentally, nothing says true love like sharing deodorant).

It’s the same thing with writing. Plotting is not my forte, so I made sure to nab two critique partners who are masters at it. When I get stuck, I can email either one and whine, “my heroine got drunk at the hero’s male strip club – now what?”

Take the scenic route. My favorite thing about writing and traveling as a pantster is the chance to discover new things. Our trip home from the beach yesterday involved a meandering drive through several small towns. Along the way, we saw a gorgeous covered bridge in Sweet Home and a pair of large mammals copulating at Sea Lion Caves.

Nookie at Sea Lion Caves.

Weddle Covered Bridge in Sweet Home.

Same deal on the writing front. I had no idea when I started writing LET IT BREATHE (the third in my contract) that the story would include pink-haired biker grandma or an alpaca who head-butts men in the gonads, but those are now among my favorite features of the manuscript. Use your pantster experience to try new things. You might be surprised at what your brain comes up with.

Are you a plotter or a panster when it comes to writing or travel? What tips can you share for making your method work? Have you ever tried the other method just for fun? Please share in the comments.

I’ll be over here shaking sand out of my shoes.

Should I pick up my undies for you?

Sunday evening, we had friends over for dinner.

I didn’t tidy the kitchen. I didn’t spend hours cooking. I didn’t even check between the sofa cushions for underwear.

We’ve known these two couples for 12 years, so I no longer feel the need to pretend I’m a respectable housekeeper who doesn’t allow the dogs to lick the plates after meals.

I thought about this midway through dinner when it occurred to me I hadn’t even made sure there was toilet paper in the guest bath.

Part of me felt bad about that.

And part of me felt grateful to have friends who are comfortable enough in my home to march out of the bathroom muttering, “Tawna, you disgusting slob, where’s your butt buffer?”

It’s something that’s been on my mind a lot lately with this blog, too. I’ve been delighted to see a recent uptick in brand new visitors journeying over from other blogs with enviously high traffic. Agent Janet Reid has kindly linked to me a couple times on her blog, and Lucy March (a.k.a. New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Lani Diane Rich) has generously included a link to my blog in the sidebar of hers.

Each time someone new shows up, I have a moment of panic. Did I post something entertaining today? Was I funny enough to keep them coming back?

Then I feel like a jerk, because shouldn’t I care just as much about being funny and entertaining for those of you who’ve been showing up all along?

This is me being neurotic, I suppose. Deep down, I know I care every bit as much for old friends as I do new ones. It’s just a different dynamic. I’ve already had the chance to make a first impression on blog visitors who’ve been coming around awhile. You know about my dirty jokes and my dirty house, and you keep showing up anyway.

For that, I am insanely grateful.

And the new visitors? Well, all I can do is what I’ve been doing, and hope that’s enough to keep you showing up, too. If not, hey – I’m just glad you stopped by.

Those of you who have blogs of your own – do you do this, too? Do you get nervous when new visitors arrive? Do you re-read your own posts thinking, “crap, I wish she’d dropped by on a day I wasn’t posting pictures of how I eat bananas with my feet?”

I’d love to hear from you in the comments – both old friends and new. All of you make me do happy dances in my underwear.

Underwear I’ll try not to leave in the sofa cushions if you happen to stop by.